


septenary

by fireinmywoods



Series: palimpsest verse [2]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-06-28 22:13:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15716130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireinmywoods/pseuds/fireinmywoods
Summary: Seven short fics in thepalimpsest verse.These will jump all over the timeline and includemajor spoilers forpalimpsest, so please please PLEASE readthe main storyfirst.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Again, these stories contain **MAJOR SPOILERS FOR _PALIMPSEST_**. Please go [read that first](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14120037). PLEASE. I know it’s so terribly long, and this is temptingly short. Just trust me, okay? You really, really need to start with the main story, or none of this will make a lick of sense.
> 
> Now, for those of you who have arrived here after already reading _palimpsest_ like the wise and delightful humans you are: hello again, my darlings. I've missed you. I was prompted for headcanons recently, and, well, one thing led to another, and here we are. I know I have yet to produce the goods as far as the promised prequel(s) are concerned, but I figured you might like to see some snippets while I'm still working away on those much longer stories.
> 
> First up, let's check in on our heroes during the honeymoon phase, shall we?

Don’t get him wrong – Leonard McCoy is a very, very happy man.

Shit, he had no idea he was even capable of feeling like this. Ever since the moment Jim’s lips first touched his, he’s been floating around in a haze of dazzled, dopey elation, thunderstruck by his own good fortune. For the first time in all his nearly thirty-six years of existence, the universe seems a kind and benevolent place. Colors are brighter. Food tastes better. He’s so happy he feels _delirious_ with it, cheerfully unhinged by the vast boundless joy of being loved by Jim Kirk.

If you’d told him a month ago that he’d be regularly daydreaming over his chart notes, sighing to himself like a lovelorn teenager and counting down the hours until the end of shift, he’d have laughed in your face – but, well, here he is. He actually started _whistling_ during surgery the other day, not catching himself until he glanced up to find the rest of his team staring at him like he’d grown a second head, eyes wide and alarmed behind their safety glasses. That was embarrassing as all hell, enough to dampen his mood for a spell, but he’d already forgotten it by the time he got back to Jim’s quarters that night and immediately found himself encumbered with an armful of half-clothed starship captain.

He can’t stop smiling. Jim’s forever prodding at his laugh lines – they’re _dimples_ , he insists, which Leonard dismisses as a generous touch of honeymoon-phase embellishment – and teasing that Leonard’s face is going to stick like that if he’s not careful. It’s a tired joke, beaten into the ground with how often Jim drags it out, but he always grins as he’s saying it, crinkly-eyed and radiant, and lordy, if that ain’t the sweetest sight to be found anywhere in the galaxy.

So, yeah, Leonard is happy all right. He’s disgustingly in love, he’s fast developing a Pavlovian response to the sound of a uniform jacket hitting the floor, and Jim hasn’t required serious medical attention in weeks. Life is pretty damn good.

However.

There’s just one challenge to this unprecedented sense of serenity and well-being, one pokey little thorn on the rose of his blissful new romance – namely, the fact that the beautiful, irresistible, much-adored object of his affections sleeps like a goddamn drowning victim.

In all fairness, he’s known this for a while now. He and Jim have had cause to share a bed a handful of times over the years, and on every occasion, Leonard has invariably started awake several times in the night to the abrupt weight of an arm flung across his windpipe or the shock of ice-cold feet slithering in between his calves. Jim is far and away the most aggressively clingy bed partner he’s ever encountered. Shove him off a hundred times and he’ll come burrowing back a hundred and one, huffing out an aggrieved little mutter of complaint at being disturbed. He’s a nightmare to sleep beside, a nocturnal tyrant with all the subtlety and tenderness of a half-starved boa constrictor.

And now, like an idiot, Leonard has gone and fallen right the hell in love with him, so that his heart’s most fervent desire – the absolute _best-case scenario_ he can imagine for himself – is to keep Jim in his bed every single fucking night for the rest of his natural life.

Talk about your self-defeating strategies.

Naturally, the sudden dramatic shift in their relationship has only added fuel to the fire of Jim’s nighttime transgressions. He’s taken to snuggling up well before either of them fall asleep, which is nice enough in the moment, when Leonard’s too distracted by his mouth and ever-wandering hands to worry himself over the hours still to come, but that head start means he’s already weaseled his way past Leonard’s instinctive defenses when his advance begins in earnest. Worse still, those disgruntled little mumbles he lets out whenever he’s budged have started sounding _wounded_ to Leonard’s lovesick ears, stirring up guilt in his belly, reproaching him for the unforgivable crimes of needing oxygen to survive and preferring to sleep without a bony kneecap jammed against his balls.

Leonard can’t bring himself to push Jim away entirely, wouldn’t want that even if Jim would tolerate it. Instead, he swims up into a groggy semiconsciousness half a dozen times a night to make lesser adjustments as needed: prying Jim’s fingers from his armpit, shifting a pointy elbow away from the soft of his belly, spluttering out a mouthful of Jim’s hair. God forbid he has to take a piss in the middle of the night – getting himself out from Jim’s clutches is a near-Herculean task. It’s like being tangled up in Xemetian strangling vines: the more he tries to pull away, the more securely Jim latches on. The only reliable way to escape is to wake the kid up and flat-out tell him he needs to hit the head, steeling his heart against the sulky pout Jim punishes him with even as he reluctantly releases his death-grip on Leonard’s person.

It’s positively maddening. Ridiculous. Leonard’s going to end up suffocating or wetting the goddamn bed one of these nights when Jim can’t be roused, he just knows it. How in God’s name can the man be even bossier asleep than he is awake?

And to really add insult to injury, Leonard can never manage to properly chew Jim out over it. He means to, he does, especially when it’s deep into gamma shift and he’s blearily wrenching Jim’s sharp-knuckled fist out from where it’s jammed beneath his lumbar vertebrae for the third time that night – but then morning comes, bringing with it Jim’s goofy squeak of a wake-up noise and the idle trail of his fingers over Leonard’s chest, and all Leonard’s hard-won aggravation wobbles and collapses in on itself like a house of cards. 

It’s testament to both his hopeless infatuation and Jim’s considerable charms that he usually forgives the kid his sins before they even get out of bed. Call him a sucker, a pushover, a moon-eyed fool – it’s all true, God help him, but how exactly is he supposed to hold onto his grudge when Jim blinks up at him with those soft drowsy eyes the color of a July sky, face slowly brightening with awareness and warmth, mouth skewed sideways in a sleepy little smile? Christ, he’s not made of stone. It would take a far stronger man than he to gaze into that sweet, loving face and tell Jim off for – what, exactly? Wanting to be close to him at night? Leonard may be a grouchy and maladjusted old cuss, but even he knows better than to sabotage the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

The fact of the matter is, this is what his mama used to call a _too-tight diamond shoes_ kind of problem. Mama never was one to suffer fools or bellyachers, and she’d happily advise you on where to find sympathy if you came to her with troubles she deemed unworthy of her time. She would turn over in her grave to hear one word of complaint pass Leonard’s lips after he’s only just been given everything he could possibly want out of this life.

No, Eleanora McCoy didn’t raise her son to look a gift horse in the mouth. If a little nightly disturbance is the cost of getting Jim’s wild, ravenous heart all to himself, then Leonard will pay it gladly, say please and thank you and keep his damn trap shut about the rest.

"You about strangled the life outta me last night," is the most he might say to Jim of a morning, combing his fingers through the tangled anarchy of Jim’s hair. "You dream you were in a hog-wrestlin’ competition or somethin’?"

And Jim will grin and crane up to kiss his jaw and say, "Mmm hmm, wanna see my other moves?" and half an hour later they’ll both be panting and sweat-soaked and jelly-legged and late for their shifts _again_ , dammit, and still they’ll spare a second or five for one last knee-buckling kiss up against the suite door before they finally part ways and Leonard starts counting down to the next time he’ll feel Jim’s mouth on his.

+

And then, a couple days after Leonard’s birthday – celebrated publicly at the Neutral Zone with a handful of senior crew, and privately over the course of several outstandingly filthy hours Leonard very much doubts he’ll ever be able to contemplate in polite company without crossing his legs – Jim gets called away to mediate a scuffle that’s broken out between the three most prominent clans on Yimju.

Leonard’s not especially troubled by this news. Oh, sure, he’d prefer to be going along too: besides their recent dust-up over the importance of staying together, there’s also the undeniable fact that Jim has a real knack for collecting head injuries in the pursuit of diplomacy, and Leonard will never trust any other doctor to treat him as assiduously as he himself would. But this is part and parcel of Jim’s Starfleet duties, a routine diplomatic errand with little risk of actual violence. He’ll be back in a few days, preening with success and hopefully no more than mildly concussed – and in the meantime, Leonard will make the most of his absence by taking advantage of the opportunity to enjoy a few nights of good, solid, uninterrupted sleep.

He jokes about it as Jim’s packing up and changing into his starship uniform – talks a real big game about finally having some peace and quiet and getting a proper night’s rest without anyone’s arm on his throat or knee on his bladder. Jim laughs it off, zips up his shirt collar and slings his bag over his shoulder and kisses Leonard goodbye and says, "You love it, you love me," and, well, he’s not wrong, but Leonard’s also going to love having the bed all to himself for a couple nights, that’s for damn sure.

+

He can’t sleep.

He tosses and turns the whole night through, unable to find a comfortable position. The mattress is too soft. The pillow’s too flat. The sheets are scratchy. His bad knee from high school basketball is twinging again. He’s got a crick in his neck. It’s too cold - no, too warm - no, too cold...

It’s some unfair horseshit, is what it is. Here he finally has the chance to sprawl out as much as he likes, hog all the covers or throw them off entirely, roll over or get up for a drink of water without needing to petition the snuffling despot twined around him like a goddamn octopus – and he _can’t get to sleep_.

The first night, he chalks it up to too much coffee late in the day.

The second night, he tells himself it’s because he’s not used to sleeping in his own quarters rather than Jim’s. He’s just getting older, slower to take to an unfamiliar bed, that’s all.

By the third night, his excuses and energy for self-deception have both run dry, and there’s no denying the ugly, humiliating truth: he’s forgotten how to sleep alone.

Is that pathetic, or what? Here he slept perfectly fine by himself for near on a decade, only to have lost the trick of it in just a few short weeks. He’ll drift off for a short while, then jolt forcefully awake, reaching automatically to readjust a body that’s not there. Sometimes he’ll even wonder where Jim’s got to, toy with the idea of getting up to find him and entice him back to bed, before he remembers with a twisting coldness in his gut that Jim’s not around to be found.

This has got to be his mama’s doing somehow, he reflects grimly. She must have caught wind of that tiny ember of vexation he’s been nurturing and decided to teach him a lesson, help him see the error of his ungrateful ways.

Well, he _gets_ it, all right? Message received, loud and clear. So Jim can come back any old time now and put him out of his misery. Leonard will apologize and everything, serve himself up a nice hearty helping of crow and accept Jim’s revenge teasing with good grace, if only Jim will hurry up and come home to him.

+

The days wear on, and still there’s no sign of Jim. At least Leonard’s pretty confident that he hasn’t come to any harm – as Jim’s CMO, he’d be among the first to know if the mission had gone awry. And Jim did warn him that the atmosphere on Yimju tended to mess with communication signals, which meant he probably wouldn’t be able to get him a message while he was on-planet. Fool that he is, Leonard shrugged that off at the time. So what if they went a few days without talking? They were both grown men; they’d be fine.

But it’s been almost a week since Jim left, and lord, what Leonard wouldn’t give to have word from him right about now. It doesn’t need to be anything sentimental or even friendly – he just wants to have some idea of when Jim’s coming back to him.

Paris would know, probably, but Leonard’s not about to slink into her office to ask her, like some pimple-faced high schooler coming around his boyfriend’s house and asking his ma if her son’s at home. He and Jim are trying to keep this thing of theirs quiet for now, a secret little miraculous space just for them, untouched by gossip or expectations, and that means Leonard probably shouldn’t go around seeming too invested in what is, after all, a perfectly standard minimal-risk mission.

So he doesn’t ask the commodore when Jim’s due back, and he doesn’t tell Christine the truth when she asks what’s crawled up his ass recently, and he doesn’t whistle during surgery, and he doesn’t fucking sleep. Instead, he drinks as much strong black coffee as he can stomach and powers determinedly through his shifts at the hospital, throwing himself into his work until it’s time to trudge back to his quarters and lay himself down for another long sleepless night in the bed he has all to himself, just like he wanted. He lies there alone in the dark for hours, exhausted and repentant and wretchedly awake, missing Jim like a goddamn limb, and he prays to anyone listening that the clan leaders of Yimju get their shit sorted out _pronto_.

+

It’s the eighth night since Jim left, and Leonard’s slumped at a table at the Neutral Zone, trying to while away a few empty hours by having a drink with Scotty and Chekov and their allegedly charming female companions. He’s sure they’re nice enough girls, but he can barely muster the energy to follow the thread of what they’re talking about, much less appreciate the subtleties of wit and humor – or, God forbid, try to contribute.

This would be so much easier if Jim were here. He’s a master of small talk, and he always manages to draw Leonard in just enough to make him feel included without pressuring him to put too much of himself out there. If Jim were here, Leonard would actually be a part of the conversation, not just the gloomy, silent spectator moping into his whiskey.

If Jim were here, he wouldn’t _be_ here. They’d both be back in his quarters, passed out or naked or twined together or, ideally, all three.

Leonard downs the rest of his drink and looks over to the bar, mulling over whether he should order another or call it quits and drag himself back to his cold, quiet bed for the –

_Jim._

He’s standing by the door, offering a distracted greeting to a pair of familiar-looking Andorians at a nearby table as he casts a speculative glance around the room. Leonard’s heart _sings_ at the sight of him, and maybe Jim hears it, because he turns his head a little more and looks straight into Leonard’s eyes, his face lighting up with a smile as Scotty’s girl says suddenly, "Hey, isn’t that the captain? I hadn’t heard he was back."

Jim makes his way across the room, carving a path through the crowd which spits him out right on Leonard’s side of their table, so that it makes perfect sense for him to greet Leonard first with a casual, "Hey, Bones," and the usual brisk, affectionate clap on the shoulder. His hand lingers, though, and he holds Leonard’s gaze just a little too long, studying him for a drawn-out second before moving on to Scotty and Chekov and their lady friends, whom he warmly addresses by both name and rank without needing an introduction.

He _knows_. There’s no question about that. It’s like a superpower of his, being able to sniff out the most embarrassing, compromising secrets of Leonard’s existence. Just based on that one fleeting moment of eye contact, Leonard is sure beyond a shadow of a doubt that Jim is gleefully preparing the smuggest, most passionate _I told you so_ of his life – and at this point, he doesn’t even care. He’s earned it fair and square, after all, him and all his big talk before Jim left. He’ll take everything Jim has to dish out, just so long as Jim stays within arm’s reach for the duration.

Jim orders a drink and joins them at their table, chatting easily with Chekov and Scotty and their dates, as Leonard knew he would. The very second his drink’s finished, though, he pushes his stool back and makes his excuses, blaming warp lag and a long few days of fractious negotiations, and Leonard’s weary mind sputters frantically into action, scrambling to come up with a reason to accompany him.

He needn’t have worried. Jim claps him on the shoulder again as he’s rising to his feet and adds, "And you know what, I think I’ll do you guys a favor and take your fifth wheel with me," with a showy wink for the ladies, who giggle into their glasses while Leonard dredges up a glare and a few choice words to disguise the fact that he all but leaps off his stool to follow Jim out of the bar.

+

It’s only a ten-minute trek back to the officers’ wing, thank God. They walk beside each other, not too close, but not too far either, their arms brushing every few steps. They don’t talk; Leonard’s not sure what would come out of his mouth right now if he tried. Probably something pathetic. He keeps sneaking glances at Jim, admiring his profile, taking comfort in his nearness. Once or twice he catches Jim’s eye, and the thrill of it zings through him like a lightning strike, sparking out to the tips of his fingers, buzzing in his lips. 

God, Jim is beautiful, so unbearably beautiful, and he’s _his_ and he’s _here_ and in just a couple minutes more Leonard will get to take him into his arms like his whole body’s been craving for days and days.

Jim’s hand knocks delicately against his, a perfect little accident, their fingers almost but not quite catching together in the half-second before the touch is gone.

Leonard fucking _trembles_.

+

The tension between them winds tighter and tighter still the closer they get to Jim’s room, to privacy, to _them_ , and by the time the suite door finally hisses shut behind them, Leonard’s about ready to get down on his knees and beg for Jim’s hands on him.

He doesn’t need to, of course, because Jim is already pressing up against him, warm and lean and so sweetly familiar Leonard could _cry_ if he weren’t otherwise occupied being kissed to within an inch of his life. Jim holds Leonard’s jaw with one hand and curls his other arm around Leonard’s shoulders and just kisses the absolute living shit out of him, kisses him breathless and stupid, kisses him like the world is ending, and then he pulls back and looks Leonard in the eye with a tiny crooked smile and Leonard’s sure this is it, the big _I told you so_ , but instead Jim tips up slightly on his toes and kisses him in the center of his forehead, then between his eyebrows, and finally, very gently, on the sore puffy-feeling skin beneath each eye.

"I’m beat," he says. "Let’s go to bed."

So they do. They strip down to their drawers and crawl into bed together, and Leonard lies on his back so Jim can curl up beside him the way he likes, and after that Leonard has no idea what happens because he’s out like a light the instant he closes his eyes.

+

He wakes up a few hours later to find Jim all tangled up around him, as per usual. Jim’s elbow is digging painfully into his ribs, and his foot’s gone numb because Jim’s somehow managed to twine both legs around one of his. He’s pretty sure that’s drool he feels on his shoulder.

He makes to pull away, just a bit, testing the strength of Jim’s grip. Jim grumbles in his sleep and stubbornly cuddles in even closer, burying his face against Leonard’s neck, and Leonard smiles to himself in the dark, scritches Jim’s scalp and kisses the side of his slack drooling face and goes back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story stood at 500 words just three days ago, which seems fitting somehow. After all, don't we all get a little carried away by that effervescent new relationship energy?
> 
> That said, uh, do let me know if you notice any especially egregious typos.
> 
> ♥♥♥


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case this wasn’t sufficiently clear (it wasn’t!), Part 1 took place on Yorktown, right after the end of _Beyond_. I know the comics have Jim and Bones off on another ship while the Enterprise-A is being built, but frankly, as far as this verse is concerned, the comics can go take a flying leap. (On a related note, if you would ever like to go _completely fucking crazy_ , I highly recommend trying to cobble together one consistent telling of AOS Jim’s childhood from all available source material.)
> 
> Now let’s jump forward a couple years for a reminder that, happily lovesick fool though he may be, Leonard McCoy’s still got some bite to him.
> 
> To set the scene, a line from the headcanon that inspired this story:
> 
> _Leonard will chew Jim out all day long for being childish, reckless, bullheaded, out of his goddamned lunatic concussion-addled corn-fed mind – but oh, may the good Lord take mercy on the outsider who breathes one derisive thought about Jim Kirk behind his back in Leonard’s presence._

“I hear you made someone cry again today,” Jim says brightly over dinner – takeout from the Burmese place near SFM, the one he’s been waxing poetic about for five goddamn years. This must be the tenth time they’ve had it since getting back.

“Oh, horseshit,” Leonard says, rolling his eyes. “Lord almighty. Rumor mill in this city’s near as bad as on the ship.”

Jim hums his agreement around a mouthful of noodles, chews and swallows and smirks at Leonard with a knowing gleam in his eyes. “So you _didn’t_ throw down with Pirelli’s CMO in front of the new batch of xenoneurosurgery fellows, then?”

Dammit. Leonard shifts in his chair, unhappily aware that he’s been treed. “Not…in _front_ of them,” he mutters.

Bernardo Pirelli’s a mean old son of a bitch, a lifer who dramatically fell from grace some years back after his mishandling of the uprising on Viirn – coincidentally, not too long before Jim’s even more dramatic ascendency as the youngest captain in Starfleet history. He’s had it out for Jim ever since, and he’s made no secret of it, either. From the very beginning, any time there was even a whiff of controversy around something Jim had done, some minor reg violated or contentious treaty signed, Pirelli would be first and loudest among the critics, baying for Jim’s blood over the slightest perceived misstep. Jim always did his best to avoid engaging with him, but Leonard knows the constant barrage of fault-finding and second-guessing got under his skin during his first couple years in command, when he was still getting his feet under him as captain.

Then, of course, the Enterprise was given the five-year mission, and that drove Pirelli completely over the edge. Not without reason, mind you – vicious, jealous, small-minded reason, but reason all the same. See, the once proud Captain Pirelli has spent the better part of the past decade in command of the Lee, an aging Hoover-class vessel mostly tasked with milk runs and escort duty, brief unglamorous missions that keep her close to home, her crew grounded more days than not. Lord, it must have itched his ass something awful seeing Jim get such a prestigious, historic assignment over him. Warms Leonard’s heart a little just thinking about it.

In any case, it sure was nice not having to deal with him for five years. Say what you will about Klingons and swarms of mutant-piloted attack drones, but at least out in the black you’re allowed to fire back at the bastards if they start firing at you.

Now, though, the mission’s over, and while all signs point to them getting sent off again before the year is out, they’ve been promised a full six months of limited duty here in San Francisco. There are plenty of reasons Leonard’s glad to be back on Earth for a spell after so many years in space – real food, minimal risk of torpedo attack, diseases he actually recognizes and knows how to treat, a modicum of goddamn privacy – but finding themselves back within range of Pirelli’s bullshit ain’t one of them.

And absence hasn’t exactly made the heart grow fonder. Most of Jim’s early critics have softened over the years, begrudgingly coming to accept that he’s turned out to be a halfway-decent captain after all, but Pirelli’s only gotten nastier. It’s become abundantly clear that he truly _hates_ Jim, would love nothing more than to sink his career and piss all over his legacy. If he had his way, he’d see Jim drawn and quartered and buried in a pauper’s grave, his loyalists scattered to the four corners of the galaxy, and his own grizzled ass sitting pretty in the command chair of the Enterprise.

Good fucking luck to him. He’s known throughout the Fleet as a lousy negotiator, a mediocre tactician at best, and word has it he can barely maintain order on his own ship, has to resort to heavy-handed intimidation tactics to keep his people in line. Any one of Jim’s crew would gladly jump in front of a phaser blast for him; from what Leonard has heard, Pirelli’s would more likely be the ones pulling the trigger.

No, Pirelli will live and die on that pissant little system jumper of his, choking on his failed aspirations as Jim’s star continues to rise. He’s not fit to spit-shine Jim’s boots, and everyone knows it, the Admiralty included. But that doesn’t stop the old bastard from pouring poison in the ear of anyone who’ll stand still long enough to listen – starting with his own browbeaten and resentful crew.

Jim darts his chopsticks into Leonard’s bowl to steal a piece of lamb, pops it in his mouth and makes an obnoxious kissy face in response to Leonard’s halfhearted scowl. “So?”

“So what?”

Jim kicks him under the table. “What do you think? What happened with what’s-his-name?”

“Sanders,” Leonard says, kicking back. “And nothing happened. He expressed his opinion, and I corrected some factual inaccuracies. End of story.”

“Uh huh.” Jim’s still got that glint in his eye, the one that tells Leonard he knows a good deal more than he’s letting on. He twirls his chopsticks idly in his bowl, spinning around a little knot of noodles. Jesus, he’s like a damn barn cat torturing a mouse when he gets like this, enjoying the game of it, lazily confident that he can drag it out as long as he likes and land the killing blow any time the whim strikes him.

“Quit playing with your food,” Leonard says, pointedly helping himself to another mouthful of curry as an example of a grown adult who intends to finish his meal sometime this century. “And you can wipe that smirk off your face, while you’re at it. You got something to say, just say it.”

“Who, me?” Jim bats his lashes in a parody of innocence, big blue eyes all wide and sparkling.

Leonard huffs and takes another bite of his food. “Cut the shit, kid. How about you save us both some time and tell _me_ what happened if you know so damn much.”

“Gladly,” says Jim, who has obviously just been waiting for his cue. He makes a whole show of setting his chopsticks down and sitting up straight in his chair, clearing his throat all official-like. “Captain’s log, stardate 2265.206. I’ve received reports of a fascinating exchange that transpired earlier today at Starfleet Medical between my own Chief Medical Officer and the CMO of the USS Lee, one Lieutenant Edward Sanders. It seems that, in casual conversation with his surgical team while scrubbing in for a pleurodesis in one of the xeno suites, Dr. Sanders expressed his opinion – ” This he drawls out with a gratingly smug tilt to his mouth, which in the interest of _getting to the fucking point_ Leonard chooses to ignore. “ – on a range of subjects including my general unfitness for command of the Enterprise or any other ship, both in absolute terms and relative to other more experienced officers; the preferential treatment I’ve received from Command as a result of my parentage, my _debatably_ pretty face, and possibly some unorthodox methods of currying favor from certain members of the Admiralty; relatedly, an interesting hypothesis on exactly how I managed to broker the peace deal between Habbad III and IV; and a wide array of character defects that should have kept me light-years away from any kind of senior crew position if advancement were really decided on the basis of merit instead of PR pandering and a couple lucky breaks.” He quirks an eyebrow at Leonard, utterly unfazed by the torrent of abuse he’s just recited about himself. “Did I miss anything?”

“That’s about the long and short of it,” Leonard says, grudgingly impressed by the quality of Jim’s intel, though even more ticked off now at whichever shit-stirring busybody it was who decided he needed to hear all that. Goddamn gossip hounds never know when to leave well enough alone.

Jim scoots his chair a bit closer, knocks their knees together and hooks his ankle around Leonard’s, rubbing his foot against him like a friendly cat – and then in a flash he’s got his chopsticks in hand again and he’s managed to snag another chunk of lamb while Leonard’s distracted. Leonard takes a swipe at the offending hand, but Jim’s too quick for him, immediately yanking his prize well out of reach of Leonard’s spoon.

“Dammit, at least take a damn veg– ”

And that’s as far as Leonard gets into his reprimand before Jim swoops back in and pokes the stolen bite into his open mouth, beaming at his own cleverness.

“You ain’t as cute as you think you are,” Leonard says, chewing with a little extra oomph to make sure he doesn’t give himself away with a smile. Jim doesn’t need any encouragement.

“Liar,” Jim says fondly. He prods Leonard’s cheek with the chopsticks and continues, “Now, what Dr. Sanders didn’t know was that _you_ were in the suite’s other operating room, just finishing up a procedure to resolve a case of oculomotor apraxia in a pediatric Jinari patient – which went well, I assume?”

“Too early to say. Be another day or two yet before the inflammation along the neural pathways goes down enough to run a full assessment.”

“You still think the problem was in the frontal visual cortex?”

“I sure hope so, seeing as how I spent four hours dicking around in there,” Leonard says dryly. “Might need to go back and do a bit more work on the secondary optic tracts, but I’m hoping to at least see improved control of the anterior eyes.”

“You will,” Jim says with his usual outsized confidence. “Where was I? Oh, right – so, unbeknownst to Sanders, there you were in the operating room, attended by the new xenoneuro fellows and two of your own nurses.” He arches an eyebrow again. “One of whom had been leaning against the intercom button for about five minutes. _Purely_ by accident, of course.”

Leonard pulls a face. “Swear to God, if that woman weren’t so damn good at her job, I’d’ve had her sent to Ohniaka III a long time ago.”

“Just give the word,” Jim says. “I’ve had the transfer request typed up for years.” He’s almost entirely joking, Leonard’s pretty sure. He likes Christine, for all that she delights in busting his balls and doesn’t fawn over him like the other nurses. Maybe _because_ of that, come to think of it. “So, having completed your procedure and given instructions for transfer to recovery, you entered the scrub room, disposed of your gown and gloves, and very calmly invited Dr. Sanders to accompany you into the sterilization room for a quick chat – which he did, though not without what one witness characterized as _extreme_ reluctance.”

Leonard coughs and looks down at his curry to hide the smirk he can feel creeping up on him. “I’d say that’s a fair statement.”

“I bet.” There’s a smile in Jim’s voice. Leonard kinda wishes he could see the real thing, but not enough to risk making eye contact again. He knows damn well where this is going. “Unfortunately, things get somewhat hazy at this point, since you and Sanders are the only ones who were actually privy to your conversation in the sterilization room.” Jim’s foot rubs against Leonard’s leg again, the arch fitted just-so to the line of Leonard’s shin. “Any chance you could fill me in on the details?”

Leonard shrugs. “Don’t rightly remember the nitty-gritty of it. Must not have been that interesting.”

“Mmm hmm.” Not surprisingly, Jim sounds unconvinced. His toes have found their way up under Leonard’s jeans, cold against his ankle.

“I got you those fancy-ass thermal socks so you’d _wear_ ’em, you know,” Leonard reminds him.

“I know,” Jim says. His foot creeps higher up Leonard’s leg, toes scrunching like wiggly little ice cubes against his calf. “Come on, you’re really not gonna give me _anything_?”

“Nope.” Leonard finally gives in and looks over to meet Jim’s eyes, which are sharp and expectant, just waiting for him to break. “Leave it be, kid. I told you, all I did was set him straight on some of the hogwash he was spewing. Ain’t like I laid hands on him.”

He didn’t. He would never risk his career or Jim’s that way, no matter how much a son of a bitch might deserve it. No doubt the rumor mill has dreamed up some big juicy altercation to chew on, but the God’s honest truth is that Leonard just looked his fellow doctor in the eye and told him a few simple things he obviously needed told:

That if his clinical skills were as shoddy and threadbare as his scruples, Leonard hoped to God nobody on the Lee ever suffered so much as a scraped knee.

That showing his ass by shit-talking a superior officer wasn’t going to do a thing to raise his own status, just prove to anyone listening that he was every bit as petty and vindictive as he was ignorant.

That he’d be wise to keep _Captain_ Jim Kirk’s name out of his goddamn mouth, and that frankly it was a wonder he could fit it in there in the first place what with Pirelli’s balls crammed so far down his throat.

That Kirk brokered the ceasefire in the Habbad system through perseverance, fair-mindedness, and diplomatic finesse, all concepts Sanders understandably wouldn’t be familiar with, since his own captain couldn’t negotiate a peace between two pampered lap dogs scrapping over the same chew toy.

That everybody – _everybody_ – knew Pirelli should’ve been court-martialed for the shit he pulled on Viirn, and that he’d only been spared by the favor of his cronies at Command, so if Sanders wanted to accuse anyone of sucking the brass’s dick, he’d do well to look a little closer to home.

That by and large ships tended to end up with the crews they deserved, so unless he got his attitude in check and learned to keep his cockamamie conspiracy theories up his ass where they belonged, he’d best come to terms with the idea of spending the rest of his worthless career rotting in obscurity on that puttering little tin can with his narcissistic war criminal of a CO.

And finally, that if by chance he ever opted for an exploratory procedure to see about salvaging the few sorry shreds of integrity that might still be found smothered under the malignant mass of all that bitterness and entitlement, well then he’d better ask somebody else, because Leonard wasn’t interested in marring his record for a hopeless case.

Like he said: simple. Just setting the record straight.

Back at the dinner table, Jim has apparently taken Leonard’s defense as an invitation, laying his own hand on Leonard’s forearm, long fingers curling over in a deceptively gentle grip. “One hint?” he tries, cajoling. His hand is a loose, warm shackle just below Leonard’s wrist, thumb stroking softly over the slight protrusion of the ulnar head. “Please?”

“No.” Leonard rolls his arm back and forth a couple times under Jim’s hold, just a bit, just to make a point. He’d have to be dumber than Sanders to actually try to get away. “I’m eating, here.”

“I have it on good authority that you’ve got two hands,” Jim says, and gives Leonard’s arm a squeeze. “Well, since you’ve decided to be a total killjoy, even though _I_ thought we were supposed to share _everything_ now – ”

Leonard snorts despite himself, earning another squeeze and a bright little flash of a smile.

“ – I guess our story picks up afterward, when you both returned to the scrub room after approximately three minutes of mysterious seclusion. The unfortunate Dr. Sanders promptly exited the suite at a brisk pace in evident mental and emotional distress, leaving behind a 103-year-old anesthetized Saurian and a stunned surgical team without a lead surgeon – at which point you scrubbed in again and did the pleurodesis yourself.” Jim jabs his toes into Leonard’s calf. “Which is why you were two hours late getting home, and why we’re having sanwin makin for dessert instead of the homemade cobbler I was _specifically promised_ this morning.”

“I’ll make it tomorrow,” Leonard says, though he knows Jim’s not really mad about that. “And I did that patient a favor, if you ask me. I don’t know what Phil was thinking giving Sanders that case. He cuts corners, and he never listens to his nurses. Arrogant and incompetent is a hell of a combination when it comes to any kind of thoracic surgery, never mind one on a patient with four hearts and three autonomous sets of lungs. If Sanders had gotten his hands on her, that poor gal probably would’ve suffocated to death the first time she bent over to tie her shoes.”

Jim nods gravely. “Sounds like she got a lucky break. Who knows what could have happened if you hadn’t eviscerated a commissioned officer into abandoning his post and locking himself in a supply closet for half an hour.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, I didn’t…” Leonard pauses. “A supply closet, really?”

“That’s the word on the street.”

“Huh.” Leonard shakes his head. “Look, the point is, he’d have caught shit from _anybody_ who heard him talking that mess. He’s a goddamn lieutenant. He can’t go around running off at the mouth like that about another officer, much less someone three ranks above him. It’s unprofessional. I had half a mind to drag his ass down to the conduct office and have him brought up on insubordination charges.”

“Right,” Jim says, dragging it out slow and skeptical till it rhymes with _bullshit_. “Because that’s what this was all about. Professionalism.”

Leonard slants him a look, finding to his surprise that Jim’s crooked smile isn’t nearly as smug as he would’ve predicted. “Come off it, kid,” he says gruffly, and Jim’s smile just grows, softens, fine lines etching out from his eyes. “You know it wasn’t.”

It’s true that Sanders would’ve deservedly gotten hell from just about any higher-ranking officer who’d overheard him, and Leonard would’ve given him a piece of his mind no matter who he’d been trashing – Phil, someone at Command, another captain, Leonard himself – because it _was_ unprofessional, and he _did_ need to learn there were consequences for talking shit in the workplace.

But Leonard wouldn’t have _felt_ it like he did if it’d been anyone else Sanders was spouting off about. Even now, hours later, he can still feel the faint burn where it roared through him, that terrible scalding rage flaring out from the pit of his stomach, the words of his counterattack swelling like acid on his tongue while he ran his final scans and gave the recovery instructions, searing-hot, just waiting to be spit out. He’d never resort to violence in a hospital of all places, but he followed Sanders into that sterilization room knowing full well he wanted to _hurt_ him, give him back some of the pain and humiliation he’d been so carelessly dishing out, turn his own weapons around on him and make him feel even a fraction of the insecurity and self-loathing Jim struggled with for so long thanks in no small part to spiteful little pricks like him.

No, this wasn’t about professionalism, or a loyal subordinate defending his commanding officer. Captain James T. Kirk doesn’t need defending. His record speaks for itself, and nobody with two brain cells to rub together is going to pay the least mind to the malicious ranting of some self-pitying lowlife.

The fact is, when Leonard heard Sanders’s ridiculous accusations through the intercom, when that wildfire anger first burst into life deep in his gut, he wasn’t thinking about his captain at all. He was thinking about _Jim_ : the man he sleeps beside every night, the man he kisses goodbye in the morning and hurries home to at the end of every shift.

Jim, who smiles to see him even when he’s two hours late, who remembers his surgery schedule and believes in him with outsized confidence and plays footsie with him at the dinner table.

Jim, who woke him up this morning by trailing a delicate fingertip along his eyelashes until he opened his eyes; who plucked the travel mug out of his hand and insisted they take the extra five minutes to drink their coffee on the couch together; who ordered him an aircar after five minutes turned into fifteen, kissed him one last time and carefully smoothed his whites down over his chest before shoving him out the door with a loud joke about passing out in his _own_ bathtub next time for any curious neighbors who might be passing by.

Jim, who not two months ago was holding both Leonard’s hands in his while the officiant burbled unintelligibly beside them, beautiful and radiant and so happy, smiling fit to split his face in half, squinting against the blinding Ofrosian sun to look into Leonard’s eyes and promise him the rest of their lives together.

Jim, who right this second is leaning across the corner of the table to kiss the side of Leonard’s mouth, his lips hot and still a little slippery from the noodles he was eating. “My hero,” he murmurs, nudging his nose against Leonard’s cheek.

In any other moment, any other circumstance, Leonard might hear it as sarcastic, mocking even – but here and now, sitting at the kitchen table with Jim’s hand on his wrist and Jim’s foot tucked against the curve of his calf, it sounds heartfelt. Sincere.

Leonard turns his head to fit their mouths together in a real kiss, nipping gently at the hot chili-flushed swell of Jim’s bottom lip. He wants Jim to know how loved he is. He wants Jim to know that he’ll always have his back, stand with him against all comers – not because he’s supposed to, but because it’s his right, his _privilege_ to protect him, to look after his heart the same as he looks after the rest of him. He’ll keep Jim safe, heal his hurts, shelter and defend him, today and every day, for as long as they both shall live.

He wishes he could just come out and say all that, but he can’t, he knows he can’t. Words will fail him if he tries. Two and a half years in, and still he can never seem to translate how he feels in a way that does any kind of justice to how powerfully, how _infinitely_ he loves this man.

But Jim doesn’t care. He kisses Leonard back, sighing out a sweet noise when Leonard lifts his free hand to cup his cheek. He doesn’t need the words Leonard finds so hard to wrangle. He just _gets_ it, and Leonard loves him for that too.

They’re slow to part, lingering close, foreheads pressed together as they breathe into the space between them, noses bumping when one or the other of them tilts in for just one more little kiss – another – another.

It’s Jim who pulls away in the end, pressing a sloppy sideways kiss into Leonard’s palm as he draws back. “Seriously, Bones,” he says, running his thumb over Leonard’s wrist where he’s still holding onto his arm. “Thank you.”

God, Leonard wants to kiss him again. He wants to _wreck_ him, get his hands on him properly and drag him into his lap, take his fill of Jim’s mouth until those long fingers are clutching at him, gripping bruises into his skin, yanking his hair, begging to be loved just right – 

But no, no. Not yet. Leonard’s a grown-ass man; he can control himself a while longer. They’ve _got_ to finish eating first this time. It’s a crime how much food they’ve wasted these past couple months, it really is. Just sinful.

Leonard settles for bringing his unhindered foot up to brush against Jim’s leg, biting back a smile when he feels Jim’s toes wriggle again. “Yeah, well, _someone’s_ got to give a damn about your reputation, seeing as you can’t be bothered. Don’t go thinking this is some big romantic thing. It’s self-preservation, pure and simple. My dumb ass married into this shitshow, so now it’s both our problem.”

“True.” Jim grins, wide and dazzling. Sanders got one thing right, anyway: Jim _is_ a good bit easier on the eyes than most any other captain in the Fleet, including and _especially_ Pirelli. That venomous old fuck’s got a face to knock a buzzard off a gut wagon. “But Sanders doesn’t know that.”

Leonard scoffs and points his spoon at Jim like a wagging finger. “Kid, what that possum-faced shitheel don’t know could fill a goddamn library computer.”

Jim laughs. His foot finally drops away from Leonard’s leg, only so he can use it to scooch his chair even closer – absurdly close, if you ask Leonard. He’s edged a good ways past the edge of the table now; any farther, and he may as well abandon the pretense entirely, get up and park himself in Leonard’s lap like he’s so obviously building up to.

Leonard can’t claim he’s not looking forward to that particular development. In the meantime, though, he does his best to focus on eating. Jim’s noodles are a lost cause at this point, but _one_ of them should finish their meal tonight, at least.

Never content to be ignored, Jim ups his game by ghosting his palm along Leonard’s forearm, raising goosebumps at the first feather-light pass. “Did he really cry?”

“Beats me,” Leonard says, trying not to shiver as Jim’s hand whispers down his arm again. “What a man does in the privacy of his own supply closet is none of my business.”

Jim laughs again. It’s a good laugh – a _real_ laugh, carefree and easy, untouched by Sanders’s malice, which is the only thing that really matters at the end of all this – and it just might be the final nail in the coffin of Leonard’s self-restraint.

He drops his spoon into his bowl and allows himself to just look at Jim: the finest captain in the Fleet by a country mile, and more importantly the best man he’s ever known, a man he’ll never hesitate to go to the mat for. Brilliant, courageous, principled, compassionate – superlative in every way, up to and including having the coldest fucking feet of any human being alive. 

And very, very pretty. Especially when he laughs. Especially when he’s sitting here so awfully close, stroking Leonard’s arm, watching him with those dark smiling eyes, unsubtly tracing the tip of his tongue over the exaggerated curves of his swollen red mouth.

Fuck it. They’re newlyweds, ain’t they?

Leonard slides his bowl safely toward the center of the table and lays his own hand on top of Jim’s, savoring the hot little anticipatory thrill that quivers through him as Jim’s fingers flex under his. “You know, darlin’,” he says, real low and growly the way Jim likes best, “I think maybe dessert can wait.”

“Oh, it definitely can’t,” Jim says, and Leonard doesn’t even have time to roll his eyes at that terrible line before his husband is landing heavily on his lap, laughing into his mouth, clinging to his neck for balance as the abandoned chair falls back against the tiles with an almighty clatter.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr](https://fireinmywoods.tumblr.com)!


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